Sleepless
by Maze-zen
Summary: Christine tossed and turned in her luxurious bed in the Louis-Philippe room - the room that had come to be hers - in the little house on the lake.


Christine tossed and turned in her luxurious bed in the Louis-Philippe room - the room that had come to be hers - in the little house on the lake. She didn't know why she couldn't sleep. It usually wasn't an issue when she'd spent the day with rehearsals above, before going the long way down to Erik's house where they would sing together the rest of the afternoon.

She wasn't hungry; Erik had made a wonderful stew for dinner and she'd had her fill. When they sat down to read that evening, he had brought her tea and - despite his usual complaining about her intake of sugar - a home-baked sweet biscuit. She'd eaten it with absolute delight, making him smile at her enthusiasm, and he promised that there was more for breakfast.

Was the sweet biscuit the reason for her insomnia? Perhaps it hadn't been wise to eat it so close to bedtime. Or maybe she was too excited by the prospect of having more for breakfast?

It didn't feel like any of that was the reason. She felt restless, despite her fatigue, and the quietness in the little house wasn't helping. If only Erik would play a bit, but he never would when it was her allotted bedtime, insisting that she wouldn't be able to fall asleep if he played.

She began to wonder what he did instead. He never slept much; she had actually never been awake at a time where he had slept, and she was glad because her stomach hurt when she imagined him in that coffin, he called a bed. To think that one day he wouldn't leave the casket ever again... She felt tears fight their way into her eyes.

She quickly pushed the image away from her mind, lest she started to cry - ruining her chance of beauty sleep completely. But a veil of sadness had already descended down on her.

It was impossible to sleep now, and she found herself donning her lovely white dressing gown with ruffled lace trims, and stepping into her soft lavender slippers. Carefully, she opened the door and looked into the hall; the light was dim, only a few gaslights flickered with light, and it was quiet.

She walked past his private room, hoping with all her heart that he wasn't in there. Instead, she chose to look in the music room which was where she usually found him. This time was no exception; he was sitting by the piano, scribbling his nearly unreadable notes onto a music sheet. It was a familiar scene. She'd seen him many times like this.

She did not wish to disturb him, but she wanted to be near him - to know that he was alive and wasn't leaving her - so she knocked softly on the door frame. In one elegant move, he turned around and rose to his feet, somewhat flustered by her interruption. She felt a blush rise in her cheeks; she shouldn't have disturbed him.

"Christine, dear, why are you not asleep?" He didn't sound angry, merely perplexed. Despite his attempt to keep his eyes on her own, his gaze lowered as he took in her form, and she suddenly felt embarrassed that she only wore so few layers. Her hair was at least tied with a bow instead of hanging loose.

"I can't sleep. I apologize for interrupting your work." Her voice was meek and she was annoyed with herself for taking such a childish role when she was with him. She was not a child and he was definitely not her father. He intimidated her, both as an authority figure and as a man of flesh and blood. The latter, however, was also what drew her to him.

"Do not apologize, my dear. I always welcome your company - you must know that by now." She did know. Even when his anger took hold on him and he ran from the room, he never wanted her to leave. "Do you want me to brew you some tea? Perhaps it will calm you down." He offered politely and walked towards her, presumably to head for the kitchen.

When he came up to her and halted - waiting for her to move, so he could pass her - she lifted a tentative hand to his chest. He tensed for a moment as he assessed her intentions. "What is bothering you?" He asked in a worried voice. He was wearing his black mask, but she could still imagine the frown that was hiding underneath the cloth.

She shook her head to rid herself of the memory of his horrid face. He was still Erik. And he was alive. Despite the many layers of clothing, she could clearly feel his pounding heart in his chest, ensuring her that he hadn't left her.

"I just wondered..." She whispered as she finally dared to meet his golden eyes. "Can I stay here?" He stared at her incredulously as her words came and went, and she braced herself for rejection - she would be sent back to her room.

It was surprising when he lifted his own hand and put it on top of hers on his chest. His eyes warmed, almost as if he was smiling beneath the mask. "Of course, Christine." He tugged gently at her hand, encouraging her to follow as he went back to the piano where he let go of her hand and sat down on the bench. He patted the spot next to him and she accepted the invitation.

"So..." He said with a tender voice. "Tell me what you want me to play."


End file.
